


Saturday Night Writing Prompt Sprint Vol 1

by Morgause_The_Enchantress



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 06:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause_The_Enchantress/pseuds/Morgause_The_Enchantress
Summary: A short anthology of unrelated stories based on Reddit writing prompts:1. A war vet down on life encounters the most bizarre man2. Another crisis that can only be solved by an average man whose life is slowly being ruined by a group of superheroes who always need his help3. Death and cremation are usually a morbid end to life. For Lexi, they were just the beginning.





	Saturday Night Writing Prompt Sprint Vol 1

**[WP] Every person has their Kill/Death ratio visible above their heads. Most have a K/D of 0.0, Police Officers may have a K/D of 1.0 or 2.0, veterans may have 14.0 and serial killers may have even higher ratios. It’s just a normal part of life until the day you meet someone with a K/D of 0.23.**

Ed shouted from the office. "Got another killer joining. He ain't got nothing on you Twonyone".

I hate that nickname. Ed is a tool. I hate that nickname. At the docks we were all killers. No other jobs out there for men like us.

"How's it going Twonyone?"

I lit an old-school tobacco cigarette and stared. One guy was a 6, the other a 9. Their smirks turned to frowns. They moved on. I hate that nickname. Most people live and die a 0. Their friends call them Eric or Steve or Frank. I was dumb enough to volunteer for Venezuela. Now I was Twonyone. Most men at the docks did a tour in Venezuela.

Being a 21 got you a lot of dirty looks. Mostly from women. It also got your some mischievous smiles. Mostly from men. I liked the smiles. They made for fewer lonely nights.

The docks were a place for trouble. A man ran by. I paid no attention. Men running meant trouble. A cop was chasing him. Like I said, trouble.

I looked up. The cop was trigger happy. He was a 3. Only trigger happy cops were a 3. The troubled guy was a 0.23. 0.23? What the fuck is a 0.23? Fractions were reserved for Jesus and unlucky cats. Troubled guy made me curious. I'm never curious.

I followed the guy and cop with my eyes. They hit a dead end. Shit, I'm going to have to mop this up. It's going to be a whole thing. Not getting paid for today.

Cop pulled out his gun. Trigger happy. His number went to 4. Trigger happy.

A man ran by. Men running meant trouble. It was the same guy from before. His number was 0.19.

* * *

**[WP] A gang of heroes sees you as their leader and constantly turn to you for advice. The only problem is - you have no idea who they are or what their purpose is. Yet somehow, through bizarre circumstance, your random advice always seems to work out perfectly for them.**

There was a knock at the door. I was up anyway. There was another knock. I wasn't really awake.

"Hold on!" I said.

There was a another knock. I shuffled to the front door. There was no one there. Another knock. Ugh. I opened the balcony door. He glided in. Tall, muscular, chiseled jaw, boots, cape, slicked back hair. I should know his name. He's the one that glides.

"The city is in danger," he said.

The city was always in danger. And they always needed my help.

"We need your help," he said.

No shit.

"I don't know how to help you," I responded.

He ignored that.

"They've taken the mayor hostage. They plan to blow up City Hall. We need a plan."

"I can't help you."

I really couldn't. I was a guy on a couch eating Cheetos. I had no job. All thanks to the guys who always needed help. And maybe the drugs. Ok, mostly the drugs.

"We need a plan now," he insisted.

"Leave me alone. Cheetos ain't going to finish themselves," I moaned.

"The Cheetos. They are a metaphor," he mused.

The Cheetos were not a metaphor.

"Thank you, chief. It just might work," he said.

I had no idea what he meant. He rocketed out through the window.

A flash, a boom, then sirens. Another knock on the door. It's a gift basket and a thank you note. They never forget.

Fuck me.

* * *

**[WP] Every soul is bound to the location their body is buried. Crypts have turned into nightclubs. Cemeteries have become more like Woodstock. You however were cremated.**

I step in and the music stops. In my head it stops. In real life... err... death, it doesn't. But they all look. I know they all look. My legs go down to the floor and the white thigh-high boots make sure they notice.

On Earth, people think death sucks. I didn't start living until I was cremated. Zilfonians know how to throw a party. I look good.

I scan the crowd. I'm not picky. Kel-dak is dreamy. He's always my first choice. He's a bit older. For him, 300 years is a bit. I'm not picky. Broad shoulders, and an extra set of firm, thick arms that know what they are doing. I'm really not picky, but he's my first choice.

I take a seat at the bar. The twins concocted something that shoots green flames. There is no drinking age in death.

Two sets of arms wrap around my midsection. He whispers in my ear. I melt.

The other girls look at us. I call them "girls". No one gets upset about xeno-gender precision. They raise their glasses and smile. It's sincere. Everyone gets a turn.

We down a shot. It tingles. We down another. The dance floor beckons. The other dancers make room. 19-year-olds humans are pretty rare around these parts. Cremation isn't for everyone. I look good.

We lose ourselves in the rhythm. One song turns into five. We get closer. The music rocks, my man is hot, we have no troubles, and I look good.

Death is great.

 


End file.
